


Thank You for Flying With Us (hope to see you again)

by donutsandcoffee



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M, Twitter, a lot of texts, email, having fun with format of the fics, some visual aids, texts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsandcoffee/pseuds/donutsandcoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>But do you know what’s worse?</i> Another text goes in, <i>Even after the funeral, MY FOOD WILL STILL NOT COME YET, because they’re probably sending it from fucking Africa with a goddamn boat or something. I am growing a fucking five-foot-long beard. There is a spider web forming in the space between the table and my arm. A kingdom has risen and fallen as I wait.</i></p><p>Or, the one where Michael is a food critic, Gavin is a photographer, and they only meet at airports, in between jobs.</p><p>Airports, drinking game, one too many texts in all caps, misunderstanding-inducing pictures, references to 90s cartoons, game analogies, a whole <i>lot</i> of pining, and a game Gavin thinks they’re playing that Michael has <i>absolutely no idea about.</i> This is one hell of a ride, and Gavin doesn't even know if he wants out or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You for Flying With Us (hope to see you again)

_GAVIN. FUCKING. FREE._

The text on his phone is in all capitals, a style that would have hurt his eyes months ago but simply send a warm, tingling feeling to his chest nowadays. The message arrives as soon as Gavin switches his phone on at the arrival gate in Hong Kong International Airport, and it is immediately followed with—again, in glaring capitals— _REPLY ME IMMEDIATELY OR I WILL REARRANGE YOUR FACE WITH THE NEAREST BLUNT OBJECT. WHERE. THE FUCK. ARE YOU?_

There was a time when Gavin would try to fool himself, pretending that the texts don't mean anything to him _._  Those days are long gone, though, and now Gavin does not even bother to stop himself from grinning anymore. It both amuses and amazes him how Michael's threats and rants can be consistently creative, and he simply types,  _hong kong. why so violent, michael (°_ _ﾛ_ _°”)_  and hits send.

He imagines Michael throwing his arms up in frustration because of the text, the way Michael does every time Gavin is being deliberately obnoxious, and Gavin chuckles at the image. That earns him bewildered stares from a couple of strangers around him—and an over-reaction, in his opinion, from a Chinese woman ushering her two little kids away from him—but when has he ever been concerned about what other people think of him? 

Trick question. The answer is, obviously, never.

 _Fuckyu o,_  Michael replies.

That barely coherent text message manages to draw a guffaw.

 _you wish ;),_  Gavin replies teasingly in between laughter.

There is a few-minutes pause before Michael replies, completely ignoring the innuendo _, Anyways. You really were too late, slowpoke. Didn't get the one that transits at Hong Kong because I couldn't find out whether you'd be there or not. So yeah, see you next time, moron._

Gavin suddenly feels like his chest is full of broken glasses.

It's a stupid reaction, of course. He knows it's a stupid reaction. People think Gavin is a cluelessairhead—and, okay, maybe he  _does_  have his moments, his brain traitorously supplying several memories as evidences right in this moment—but Gavin is most definitely  _not_ clueless, not for this. He knows how this thing—this _pining game,_  for a lack of better names—goes: you flirt, push each other's buttons until you reach a certain limit, and if you're feeling particularly daring you let a toe or two cross the proverbial line.

And then—you  _pull._

You yank yourself away, and then pretend nothing happens. Pretend that you are not flustered. Pretend that you are unperturbed. All these, while trying your best to mess the  _other_  side up.

In fact, no, scratch that, you are not even pretending; you are, genuinely, unaffected. This is just a  _game,_  after all. No emotional stake; just a game, one of pushing, and pulling, and more pushing.

Push, push, pull. 

Mindless— _emotionless_ —repetition. Button smashing, really.

Sometimes, of course, you might make mistakes. You get too involved. You get tired. You run out of hearts.

The game over screen appears. Would you like to continue the game?

Trick question. You don't know how  _not_  to, anymore.

Insert coin. Press start.

Repeat ad infinitum.

+ 

It wasn't always like this, of course. 

In fact, Gavin could pinpoint the exact moment the game began, when his life started to not so much go downhill as it was to become a part of a strangely emotional roller-coaster ride.

It started at an airport in Jakarta, Indonesia, twenty-seven hours and an entire English-speaking civilization away from the West. Nothing bands people together like being away from home, so here they were, a group of had-been-strangers in a foreign land, playing drinking games at a corner of a dingy bar like teenagers after prom night. 

“Never have I ever...” the guy who sat beside Gavin said and paused, thinking. He wore thick round glasses and had long, bushy beard that Gavin swore could hide a small child, and Gavin couldn't remember his name—he could've been a Jack, or a Jay. Nothing's personal, of course, since Gavin couldn't really remember  _anyone's_  name. 

Alcohol generally does that to you.

Jack or Jay seemed to have made up his mind. “Never have I ever,” he said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the circular table in the middle of the group, “visited more than fifteen countries in my life.”

Gavin took a shot, and he caught a glimpse of the guy sitting across him doing the same. His throat burned as the world around him spun faster, and he grabbed the edge of his stool to steady himself; it was a cheap, high stool, more rusts than metal, and Gavin swore it would snap into two and he would fall anyway, nobody close enough to catch him. 

It didn’t, though. Relief flooded him, and he absent-mindedly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning to no one in particular. The words “never have I ever” had already clumsily stumbled out of his lips before someone interrupted him, “Wait, wait, wait!”

Gavin paused mid-sentence and tilted his head at the owner of the voice: a dark-haired man with a young smile, he was the only one here with a name Gavin remembered—Joel.

You know that one guy who's friendlier than your average stranger, one who always easily becomes the life of the party? Joel was one of those people. He probably was even the one who had gathered this group of otherwise-strangers at this corner in the first place.

“What?” Gavin asked.

“I'm not buying it,” Joel said, not unfriendly. “I call bullshit. Fifteen countries? Really? And you're like, what, twenty? Twenty-one?”

“I'm twenty-four, thank you very much,” Gavin said, faux-offended.

“A  _fetus,_  basically,” Joel quickly retorted. He tipped his shot glass towards Gavin, spilling some liquid inside as he said, “so, the story. Spill.”

“There's nothing much,” Gavin shrugged, trying to play it cool, but it was mostly an act. Gavin _loves_  talking about his job, because he loves _it_. He has always been fascinated with interactions, humans and objects alike: whispered words exchanged by long-time lovers, the steady drip of water against a still rock, a wilting flower held by a pair of petite hands— _moments._  It has forever been his dream to capture these moments, like collecting reels from a slow-motioned scene in a movie, freezing it for the picture-perfect moment.

Becoming a photographer seemed like a natural decision to make. When the job offer from Ramsey Photography—a photography company that specializes itself in the tourism industry—came, Gavin took the job faster than anyone could count to three.

So here he was, three years after the best decision he'd ever made in his life, going around the world to take pictures of clean beaches and smiling families that would appear on websites and brochures aimed for tourists. Name a country, and chances are he had already made an ad of at least one of its cities. 

He told the group as much, and everyone hummed and nodded companionably. Joel gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Awesome, man. Nice getting to know someone who's achieved his dream so early in life,” Joel said, “although it's also a total bummer. Seriously? When I was your age—fuck, I sound so old now—I played video games all day and that was it.” 

The group laughed at the friendly jab. Joel wasn't done, though. Still grinning widely, he turned to the other guy, the only other person who had taken his shot with Gavin. “Don't think you're safe, kiddo. Michael, wasn't it?” There was an affirmative growl from the guy— _Michael_ —before Joel continued, “You're also a fetus. Story time.”

“I'm twenty-five, fucktruck,” Michael said with a smirk, and for the first time since they had gathered Gavin really  _looked_  at him and wow, yeah,  _that was hot,_  Gavin's alcohol-laden brain supplied.

Michael placed his empty shot glass on the table in the center and started, “ever heard of Rage Quit Critic?”

Everyone sobered a bit at that. Who hadn't? Rage Quit Critic—domain name ragequit.com—is a website popular for being the only food critic website that is painfully honest with its critics, with strong emphasis on the word  _painfully._  Don't expect a long, drawn-out explanation on how 'slightly unsavory' the tenderloin steak at  _Fortune Fountain_  is; Rage Quit Critic would—and did—phrase it as 'a fucking piece of horse shit.'

The website quickly garnered traffic, its visitors ranging from food enthusiasts looking for honest criticism to college students looking for entertainment in the form of the critic's hilarious rants on awful food. Before the website even reached its one-year anniversary, Rage Quit Critic had become the most famous, notorious,  _anonymous_  food critic on the internet.

Anonymous, except for the five men at the corner of an airport bar in Indonesia.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack or Jay said, voicing out everyone's shock. “You've got to be kidding me.”

Michael just laughed, and Gavin absentmindedly smiled at that. Michael's laughter was... nice. Like, 'a baby unicorn was born somewhere in the world' kind of nice. Gavin would even go so far as to say it was the nicest laugh Gavin had ever heard, which was saying a lot, considering Geoff's—his employer's—was dubbed by their friends as 'the laughter that could cure cancer.'

“Scout's honor,” Michael said, doing a mock three-finger salute with his free hand. Joel barked another laugh.

“Your secret's safe with us, then,” Joel winked, and then motioned back to Gavin.

Gavin took the cue. “Since we're on this topic,” he said, voice louder than usual, catching everyone's attention, “never have I ever—never have I ever taken a job that wasn't my dream job.”

Everyone groaned and took a shot. Everyone, except for Michael.

And as the rest of the ragtag group increased the alcohol level of their blood, Michael and Gavin caught each other's gaze, and Michael ducked to hide his smile.

Gavin managed to catch a glimpse of Michael's small smile, though, as clear as the day despite the dim lighting of the run-down bar, and out of all the moments Gavin had failed to capture in his life, this was one he regretted most.

+

 _It feels as if a completely nasty animal just crawled into my mouth and fucking shat all over the place,_  the text from Michael says, without any preamble whatsoever. This isn't something new—Michael has always been a _fire first, explanations later_ kind of guy, though thankfully his ammunitions are more cuss words and less actual bullets.

 _(´._.`)\\('́_ _⌣_ _'̀ ) ,_  Gavin replies.

 _ASDKKSLFDJFJFKL,_  Michael texts back.

Months of mostly being kilometers apart from Michael have taught Gavin the fine art of Michael Text Speak. A rant means it's a typical job. A keyboard smash, on the other hand, means that Michael's analogy is closer to the truth than exaggeration,  _which means_  that the poor man needs something more than those cute (to Gavin) and infuriating (to Michael) emoticons.

 _hey michael,_  he texts, and then sends a picture of [an odd-looking sphinx statue](https://31.media.tumblr.com/4fd09fdcd5ffc5bbb8d14da30bb854e1/tumblr_inline_n4auxwUzhj1r6p39a.jpg). 

Michael's reply is almost immediate.  _HAHAHHAHAH WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT_  

 _saw that yesterday (´_ _▽_ _｀_ _) ,_  he replies before locking his iPhone and putting it in his pocket to keep himself from getting distracted. There are only two people left in his queue before he has to show his passport, and he starts taking the little dark red book out of his backpack.

The person in front of him takes longer time than expected, though, and Gavin's mind wanders to Michael's latest text and imagines the moment—Michael laughing at the picture, a loud chuckle Michael can barely stifle as he looks down at his phone. A warm feeling bubbles in Gavin's chest—a slow, steady spread of euphoria—and he tries to shake himself off of it.

He's grinning like a fool to the immigration officer, though, so yeah, he's failing at that. Whatever.

+ 

The plane trip after the drinking game was  _hell._  

Gavin's head sported the worst hangover he had ever had to date, and his head was still hammering when he reached Adelaide International Airport. Thankfully, Adelaide was the perfect combination of friendly locals and empty traffic, and the small peaceful city immediately received a seal of approval from his pounding head. It was a good catalyst for his recovery, and by the time he was ordering his lunch at a Hungry Jack's in the airport he no longer felt like he was giving birth through his throat every time he spoke.

He was taking a large bite of his burger when a hand was suddenly on his shoulder and someone said, “Hey.”

And Gavin lost his shit.

Here's the thing about friends: Gavin doesn't have many of them. He has Geoff and Griffon, owners of the Ramsey Photography who were more family than employers, and Dan, his childhood friend, but that's mostly it. When you travel more miles than a businessman with a frequent flyer, you don't get to  _keep_  a lot of your relationships. Acquaintances here and there, sure, but when you leave a place, you leave the people behind, too. That's just a fact of life Gavin had long accepted.

Safe to say Gavin didn't expect the company at all.

So when Gavin heard the 'hey', he dropped his burger and  _jumped_  from his seat, screaming a loud “OUCH!” as he banged his knee on the table. He instinctively crouched to grab his knee, knocking his head with a painful _BANG_ on the same hazardous table.

There was _laughter_ ringing from the area behind him. The person responsible for all these had the audacity to  _laugh._

“Dude, are you  _five_?” The person said in between peals of laughter, and Gavin turned to give him a pout and stopped dead in his track. 

“Michael?” He blurted, shocked. For a moment, he was struck with embarrassment for having shown that he still remembered Michael’s name.

If Michael noticed, he didn’t say a thing and continued laughing. “Man, you should've seen your face,” he said, taking the seat across Gavin's and stealing his fries in the process, “it's like you're seeing a ghost.”

Gavin let him. He didn't have many friends, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't  _welcome_  one, even when they wouldn't last. “I just—wasn't expecting anyone.”

“Didn't expect to see you here either, out of all people,” Michael shrugged, and his gaze fell onto the camera Gavin had placed on the table. “Wow, you really weren't lying about the photography thing.” 

“You thought I was  _lying_?” Gavin asked, a little hurt at the accusation.

“I was just saying we were five strangers in a cheap airport bar,” Michael pointed out, “anything was fair game.”

“That was fun, though,” Gavin said. “We got them to drink twice the amount we did.”

“All part of my evil plan.”

“ _Our_  evil plan.” 

“Really, Gavin? What are we now, Pinky and the Brain?” Michael paused, then quickly added, “I'm totally brain, by the way.”

“Only because you're  _shorter,_ ” Gavin replied, and laughed as Michael comically scowled. There was a comfortable lull in the conversation, and Gavin took another large bite of his burger before asking, “So, were  _you_?”

The scowl was replaced with furrowed, confused, eyebrows. “Was I what?”

“Lying. About the Rage Quit Critic thing.”

Michael grinned, pushed some buttons on his phone and—when he was done—slid the phone across the table. Gavin snatched it up and saw the banner for the Rage Quit website, thin white letters on a black background.

When he scrolled down, the newest post, dated today, was about the airport bar they had gathered at, and the last line of the post made Gavin's chest swell:

_special thanks to Gavin, Joel, Jack and Burnie._

“Jesus,” Gavin said before he could stop himself.

Michael chuckled at that. “Michael, actually. Michael Jones.”

“Gavin Free. And seriously?” Gavin couldn't help quipping, “Can your name  _be_  more generic?”

Michael doubled over and laughed again, for once not rising to the bait. Gavin looked up from his burger and, for the first time in a place with proper lighting, took in Michael's appearance. 

The man was dressed casually, a normal top-and-jeans combo, and Gavin could see underneath the grey t-shirt that—for someone who eats for a living—Michael's body was unexpectedly _toned_. Coupled with side burns and a couple of tattoos, Michael didn't look particularly young, but there was a certain air of childishness in the way he carried himself. 

He really  _was_  attractive, Gavin's free-of-alcohol brain supplied.

“So, what are you up to?” Michael asked, completely oblivious to the fact that Gavin had just ogled him from head to toe.

Gavin shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Not much. I'm supposed to get some pictures of the town, the usual drill, but...” he trailed off, glancing at the window, rain beating furiously against it. Not exactly tourist material right now. “Probably nothing until tomorrow.”

“Nothing's for me too,” Michael said. “I have to review a breakfast menu and it's two p.m. now, so. Yeah.” 

Michael said it so casually, as if he was talking about something as mundane as the weather, and Gavin would've been fooled if it weren't for Michael's eyes—Gavin caught a glint in them, something like a dare, a challenge. 

 _An offer._  

And for a moment, Gavin was hit with something that felt a lot like—well, a lot like _fear_. Friendships don't last. People left. For all he knew Michael could be leaving as early as tomorrow, and even if he wouldn't  _Gavin_  had to leave in three days. If there was anything he learned, it's that separations hurt more the more you get attached, and—

No. Backtrack. He was being ridiculous. He barely knew who Michael was, and a name, a job description and a few hours under the influence of alcohol involve a lot less life-changing romance and tearful heartbreak than the Hollywood movies would like you to believe. He was _overreacting;_ Michael only offered to hang out, not asking him to pick a font for their wedding invitation.

So when he finished his burger, Gavin snatched his coke, slurped noisily and, essentially, mumbled into the straw, “I know a bar with a nice karaoke booth a couple of blocks down the road. Opens all day.”

For a split second Michael started, surprised. The expression was gone between one breath and the next, though, and a playful half-grin, half-smirk made its way to his feature.

“Pinky,” Michael said, “are you pondering what I'm pondering?”

Gavin almost choked on his drink with laughter.

“Gee, Brain, depends,” he said, playing along, “what do you want to do tonight?”

It was a full smirk, now. “Only the same thing we do every night.”

+ 

 **from:** [mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)  
**to:** [gavinofree@gmail.com](mailto:gavinofree@gmail.com)

 **subject:** Holiday

I don’t have any. Remember when I told you about that information leak? It also got leaked that I was from New Jersey. Now the readers demand reviews of New Jersey-an food and Ryan thinks I should fucking go for it.

What the fuck is New Jersey-an food.

Stuck here for a week. Fuck me. 

.

 **from:** [gavinofree@gmail.com](mailto:gavinofree@gmail.com)  
**to:** [mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)

 **subject:** re: Holiday

 **file(s) attachment:** [beach12012014(003).jpeg](https://31.media.tumblr.com/badfc2a8747bd882e60f65984c4885a5/tumblr_inline_n4avdthv5o1r6p39a.jpg)

also, who in the world still sends email these days?

.

 **from:** [mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)  
**to:** [gavinofree@gmail.com](mailto:gavinofree@gmail.com)

 **subject:** Fuck you

That’s it, that’s the e-mail. Fuck you.

 _I_ still do. Better than all that facebook bullshit, because there’s this thing called not being fucking bombarded with information about people you don’t give a flying fuck about.

I’m supposed to be writing reviews anyways. Already on laptop. Emails are easier.

.

 **from:** [gavinofree@gmail.com](mailto:gavinofree@gmail.com)  
**to:** [mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)

 **subject:** re: Fuck you 

 **file(s) attachment:**[underwater12012014(014).jpeg](https://31.media.tumblr.com/3ad4dd28c3ac076262f6b5501549f0ea/tumblr_inline_n4avk2oBTc1r6p39a.jpg), [underwater12012014(121).jpeg](https://31.media.tumblr.com/389b23e076942debfd1f767033749e9b/tumblr_inline_n4avkbNS3Q1r6p39a.jpg), [landmark14012014(004).jpeg](https://31.media.tumblr.com/747f1cc045283069bc3c3be2243208f2/tumblr_inline_n4avlh4dHy1r6p39a.jpg)

lol michael, you sound like a grumpy eighty-year-old old man!

I just went around south east asia, by the way. apparently the asean is introducing some kind of joint tourism package and I’m supposed to take a couple of pics so check out my attachments

beautiful, right?

. 

 **from:** [mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)  
**to:** [gavinofree@gmail.com](mailto:gavinofree@gmail.com)

 **subject:** re: re: Fuck you

I swear you’re fucking doing this on purpose.

. 

 **from:** [gavinofree@gmail.com](mailto:gavinofree@gmail.com)  
**to:** [mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)

 **subject:** re: re: re: Fuck you

 **file attachment(s):** [me.jpg](https://31.media.tumblr.com/4d91a30aa879838d9cfa5f76cc55ac61/tumblr_inline_n4avsfyu8Z1r6p39a.jpg)

michael!!!!! I’m hurt. I’m as innocent as they come 

.

 **from:** [mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)  
**to:** [gavinofree@gmail.com](mailto:gavinofree@gmail.com)

 **subject:** re: re: re: re: Fuck you

Which is not at all. This world is a fucking cruel place to live in, and you’re the worst of them all.

Also did you just fucking photoshop a goddamn flower crown on a picture of yourself how more self-obsessed can you be

.

 **from:** [mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)  
**to:** [gavinofree@gmail.com](mailto:gavinofree@gmail.com)

 **subject:** FUCKING FINALLY

THANK. FUCKING. CHRIST. The stupid New Jersey Week is done. Will be going to Berlin tomorrow. Tegel. Any chance you’ll be around? I’ll text you the details and shit. 

. 

 **from:** gavinofree@gmail.com  
**to:**[mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)

 **subject:** re: FUCKING FINALLY 

 **file(s) attachment:** [bali17012014(552).jpg](https://31.media.tumblr.com/90438dd982fd72d69c6f5e1d0f8c301a/tumblr_inline_n4avxyn7621r6p39a.jpg)

will be going to Amsterdam, I’ll probably be able to squeeze in a transit.

also, don't forget to check the attachment. 

love,

Gavin 

.

 **from:** [mlpmichael@gmail.com](mailto:mlpmichael@gmail.com)  
**to:** [gavinofree@gmail.com](mailto:gavinofree@gmail.com)

 **subject:** I fucking hate you

I’m going to fucking dump your dead body into a German sewer.

+

“GAVIN, YOU FUCKING MORON!”

Gavin burst out laughing, and it turned into a giggle as he made the car swerve into a smaller street. The rented car sped through a road with, interestingly, denser and denser vegetation, and its windows were open, allowing Gavin to feel the rush of wind around them. It was a surprisingly pleasant feel. 

Michael seemed to disagree with him. “YOU IDIOT,” he screamed, “WE'RE LOST IN A FUCKING FOREST!”

Michael's voice, combined with the sound of the old car engine and the rush of wind, created a peculiar new hybrid of noise. It sounded, Gavin thought, not unlike the machines in a Dunkin' Donuts store he used to frequent when he was nine. 

“GAVIN!” Michael continued to scream, and Gavin laughed.

“Shut up, you  _donut,_ ” Gavin retorted, because, well, Dunkin' Donuts. And the fact that he had neither brain-to-mouth nor logic-from-nonsense filter right now. “These are just _bushes_ , you drama queen.” 

Michael made a sound that was halfway between amused and confused. He looked torn between arguing against the ‘drama queen’ part and questioning the ‘donut’ part, and he ended up saying, “you're an idiot.” 

Gavin beamed at him.

They  _had_  gone to the karaoke bar. They had sung a good amount of songs, from the classics (Stairway to Heaven and Bohemian Rhapsody were among the first) to Massively Embarrassing Songs You Liked But Wouldn't Want to be Caught Dead Listening to (“One Direction, Gavin, really?” “Sod off, doofus, you literally just sang Justin Bieber.”), to generic pop songs ("Stacey's Mom has got it going on."), and back to classics (the Power Puff Girls Theme Song). Michael did a perfect rendition of My Little Pony's Winter Wrap Up and they had unholy amount of fun singing (ironically, mind you) Taylor Swift's I Knew You Were Trouble.

What they had  _not_  done, much to the surprise of everyone involved, was getdrunk. It was in the middle of the day, and neither wanted a repeat of this morning's torture of a hangover so soon, so they mostly stayed away from alcohol. 

Sobriety, apparently, brought a whole new option and perspective to the definition of having fun, one of which was to say 'YOLO' (Michael had said that it was his best friend Ray's catchphrase, but Gavin wasn't buying it) to everything and took a random bus to explore Adelaide.

A bus turned into a couple of buses, and a couple of buses turned into a rented car, and now they were speeding down an unknown road leading to what probably the middle of nowhere, somewhere between Fuckville, Australia, and what seemed like a bush plantation. Because _God_ , the _bushes_. 

In hindsight, everyone should've seen this coming, considering who was behind the wheels.

“ _Gavin,_ ” Michael suddenly said, and there was urgency in his tone that hadn't been there, snapping Gavin out of his train of thoughts.

There was a tree. 

And they were driving towards it.

Gavin slammed the brakes and spun the wheel; their car swerved abruptly with a loud  _screech,_ its entire body spun and its front facing left almost immediately. There was a litany of, “fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” courtesy of Michael, and the car was still dragged sideways by the inertia for a few seconds before—thank-fucking-Christ—stopped right beside an enormous bark of tree they almost ran into a couple of seconds ago.

There was a beat of shocked silence.

Michael’s right hand was white, gripping tightly at the door handle like it was the only thing anchored him to the life on Earth. Maybe it had been. There was nothing but the sound of panting, nothing to say after the stealth hello-goodbye with _death_ himself. 

And then, breaking the silence, Gavin said, “nailed it.”

The words were like a crack in a dam. They both instantly  _burst out laughing_ , like water would through the crack, sudden and loud and seemingly endless. 

“Fucking Christ on a bike, _you are a fucking moron_ ,” Michael declared in relief, when the laughter almost subsided, and the words somehow sent them into another bout of laughter. 

They laughed, and laughed, and  _laughed,_  and right then and there, Gavin decided he couldn't even begin to fathom a life without Michael Jones half-shouting at the passenger seat beside him, literally, metaphorically. 

+

 **@GavinoFree** hey @ltmkilla check out my new photo album  
_3 hours ago via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@GavinoFree** hey @LTMKilla   
_3 hours ago via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@GavinoFree** hey @LTMKilla   
_3 hours ago via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@GavinoFree** hey @LTMKilla   
_3 hours ago via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@LTMKilla** fuck me with a saw, @GavinoFree, don’t you have this thing called a FUCKING JOB  
_2 hours ago via TweetList_

 **@GavinoFree** @LTMKilla it IS my job michael!  
_2 hours ago  via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@LTMKilla** @GavinoFree to give me high blood pressure. why did I give you my fucking twitter again  
_2 hours ago via TweetList_  

 **@GavinoFree** @LTMKilla because you love me  
_2 hours ago  via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@GavinoFree**  seriously though hey @LTMKilla check out my new photo album  
_1 hour ago via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@GavinoFree** hey @LTMKilla   
_1 hours ago via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@GavinoFree** hey @LTMKilla   
_50 minutes ago via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@GavinoFree** hey @LTMKilla   
_25 minutes ago via Twitter for iPhone_

 **@LTMKilla**  .@GavinoFree I’m going to gut-fuck you with a shovel  
_20 seconds ago via TweetList_

 **@LTMKilla**.@GavinoFree checking the photo album by the way  
_Just now via TweetList_

+

The next morning had a rather disturbing feel of the morning after a one-night stand, except without the sex. 

They had woken up huddled together at the backseat of the car, Gavin’s head had somehow made its way to the Michael’s right shoulder, his left hand had tangled with Michael’s left. When they had woken up, almost at the same time, Michael had jumped away as if Gavin’s skin was made of fire. 

They had had breakfast together at the restaurant Michael had planned to review, and now they were standing side by side at the airport, Michael holding a ticket to god knows where, eyes pointedly avoiding Gavin's gaze. 

It was awkward.

Goodbyes weren't an unfamiliar concept to Gavin. Heck, his friendships lasted on an average of five hours, which was also the average time he spent on a flight, Geoff, Griffon and Dan notwithstanding. Saying good bye to Michael should be easy.

But Gavin couldn't shake the feeling that there was something different about Michael, that they in another universe they could've gotten along, could've been the _best_ of friends. And he hadn't forgotten what he'd felt in the car, either--he couldn't say he'd  _known_ Michael in the twenty hours they spent together, but the idea of losing the  _potential_ of knowing was unbearable.

"So," Michael said suddenly, and Gavin looked up to see Michael's shit-eating grin. "I guess this is good bye."

He couldn't say good bye to Michael.

So he wouldn't, because he was _Gavin_ , and he would rather get everything he wanted.

"No," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"No," he repeated, and he felt braver with each repetition. "This is the bloody twenty-first century, we both know how to use a goddamn phone, and we travel a lot anyways. We're exchanging numbers and I'm seeing you at another airport next month or something."

Gavin could see relief  _flood_ Michael's face, and he was quite sure his expression mirrored Michael's, because Michael laughed.

"Yeah," Michael said as he took out his phone, "I would like that, yeah."

Gavin had gotten numerous numbers at countless cities from men and women alike, but this was the one he typed carefully into his phone, his heart pounding in sync with the _tap, tap, tap_ of the keyboard.

+

 _I'm going to kill whoever owns this restaurant,_  Michael's text says.

Gavin is only at the second 'p' of 'what happened' when two more texts come in succession. 

_and I'm going to kill him with the nearest object, which unfortunately (for him, not for me, I don't give a fuck) is this goddamn handphone I'm texting you with._

_Could you imagine the funeral? “What happened to him?” “Brain damage. Handphone to the head. IPhone 4 limited edition. It was tragic.” “Indeed.”_

Gavin motions to the waitress three tables away to refill his cup of coffee, but his eyes are fixed on his phone.

 _the iphone wasn't even the latest model? bloody shameful, I say,_  he replies, snickering to himself.

 _GAVIN NO,_  Michael promptly replies _, KEEP MY PHONE OUT OF THIS_. 

There is what seems to be a storm in Vienna, the DanubePier Airport a cacophony of raindrops against surfaces and people talking to their phones, but Gavin swears he can  _hear_ Michael's voice from miles away. 

 _But do you know what's worse?_  Another text goes in,  _Even after the funeral, MY FOOD WILL STILL NOT COME YET, because they're probably sending it from fucking Africa with a goddamn boat or something. I am growing a fucking five-foot-long beard. There is a spider web forming in the space between the table and my arm. A kingdom has risen and fallen as I wait._

As the waitress pours more coffee into his cup, Gavin wonders, distantly, whether Michael would stop ranting if he doesn't reply, and immediately laughs to himself because, trick question. The answer is, of course, no. At least not anytime soon.

He's not complaining, though. He's quite sure nobody ever looks as happy when they get their daily dose of caffeine as he does right now. The waitress is eyeing him like he's an escapee from a mental hospital, but Gavin isn't complaining, not at all.

+

Michael's the one who stops texting, the next day. And the next day.

And the day after that.

His twitter has been dead for the past week, his facebook for the past  _month_ , and he's never online on Skype anymore.

It feels a lot like someone has stabbed him in the chest and slowly twists the knife for the next few days.

+

_Hey, sorry I went missing these past few days. Remember my best friend Ray I told you about? Something came up, he needed me and things got kind of crazy after that. Fucking shit storm. Things have pretty much settled down, though. Can we meet up soon?_

Gavin's thumb hovers over the send button. 

Game over. 

Would you like to continue?

It takes only a day before his resolve is broken and he replies with,  _sure, of course. sorry, was kind of busy too. I'll be in brazil for the next two weeks, if you're up for that._  

Trick question.

Insert coin.

Press start.

+

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has [its own tag](http://michaelsgavin.tumblr.com/tagged/thank%20you%20for%20flying%20with%20us) on my tumblr. there's a gorgeous typography made by diveintotheunknown so you should totally check it out :)
> 
> I know at this point most people here are only name-dropped, but their roles will be clearer (and certainly larger) in the next chapter.


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